With Banners

Once a year British miners throng into the medieval town of Durham (pop. 16,000) in northeastern England for what they call the "Miners' Gala" (pronounced gayler). Last week nearly half a million squeezed through the narrow streets to the race course beneath the castle. They heard Labor Party leaders defiantly answer the Tory Party's bid for votes. The Durham gala, which began in 1861 with a protest march against dangerous conditions in the pits, is always a living symbol of the bitter class consciousness of British labor. This year-was no exception.

Blood on the Coal. Daniel Ames, 53, looked on with tears in his eyes as fathers carrying children in their arms marched behind mine-union banners. As he saw the banner of his own Hetton-le-hole Lodge go by he said: "Those youngsters are born Socialist. The blood on the coal's the same as wot's in their veins. I couldna bin two year old when me dad first carried me on 'is shoulder behind that banner. 'E wor unemployed then and for years aft.gr.

"Ah remember when we wor turned out of our colliery 'ouse--nowhere ter go because the coal owners owned all the 'ouses. We slept where we could, till me dad got work again. But me mother died--she couldna stand it no longer. And when I wor 13,1 started in the pits pushing tubs."

The banners picked up the story. Many were draped in black, to show that a member of the lodge had been killed in the pits since the last gala. Pictures and slogans told of hopes and fears. Many banners said "The Lord is my strength." One showed a miner leaving his wife and child; it was called "His Last Goodmorning."

Silence on the Grass. First act of the rally was a tribute to the men who had died in the mines the past year. The miners and their wives stood silent as massed bands blared the solemn melody of Gres-jord, which commemorates the great Gres-ford Colliery disaster of 1934 which killed 265 men. Then Sam Watson, chairman of the national Labor Party and of the Durham Miners, said simply: "You'd be more comfortable if you all sat down now." It was a homey assembly, like an outsize church social. The miners sat on the grass, handkerchiefs on their heads as protection against the hot sun. They listened attentively to the rasping voice of Labor Prime Minister Clement Attlee; the silence was broken only when the miners murmured approval as he reminded them how much better working conditions were now than in the bad old days.

Attlee came as close as he ever does to flourishing his fist in the enemy's face. Said he in answer to the Tories' meeting 170 miles to the south at Wolverhampton:

"The strength of Mr. Churchill's language is in inverse ratio to his knowledge. It is unfortunate that his words are taken at their face value in other countries. They don't realize that that is just Winnie's way." Attlee was so pleased at this passage that he glanced challengingly at the blazing sun, then set his soft black felt hat on his head and resumed. The Tory platform, he said, was "one of the most dishonest documents I have ever read."

After the speeches, the miners and their families held a picnic. Later, as they marched to bus and train for home, stopping at pubs on the way, they sang Beer Barrel Polka and such favorites as Two Lovely Black Eyes and Mother Sought Protection Behind the Carving Knife When the Old Man Came Home Sober for the First Time in His Life.

On the stifling train ride back to London, Labor Party Secretary Morgan Phillips reread Churchill's speech. He said: "He should have been in Durham, the old scoundrel." Replied a fellow passenger: "If all Britain was Durham, you'd have nothing to worry about. But it isn't."

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